Hunting for Sprites
by YellowSunflower839
Summary: So this was it. The tale of Elfreda Witcomb: killer of priests and ravaged by Northmen. She knew one thing: she would not die without a fight. Let it be said that she died as she had lived: angry and full of spite. The Northman noticed the change in her and grinned. Halfdan/OC
1. Chapter 1

Hey everyone!

I know I have multiple stories that I have not finished yet but this wouldn't leave me alone so you're all going to have to deal with it.

A note on historical accuracy: I'm going to try but I'm not going to that hard. As someone who is literally doing a history degree at this moment, I do recognise the importance of accuracy. However, as someone who actually wants to, you know, _finish_ that degree I do not have the time to do any detailed research. Also, I believe that in historical fiction a degree of accuracy has to be lost in order for the story to actually be told. Otherwise, it might as well be a documentary. Plus, it's not like the show has any regard for historical accuracy either so like, ya know, why should I? (That's a joke, I want a career in history, please don't crucify me).

Rating: M for gore, violence and sexual harassment. This turned out way more gory than I intended - oops!

Disclaimer: I do not own Vikings or any its characters - this is a work of love and appreciation and nothing more.

EDIT: I realised that because this is a kidnapping story and it is set in the Vikings universe that some of you may be worried about issues like rape and consent. I want to make it clear now that there will not be any scenes of rape or non-consent in this story - I abhor it and I think it is a cheap shock tactic used by poor writers. In our current climate of victim blaming and rape culture, most stories get it wrong and it does more harm than good and I will not contribute to that. Not to mention, scenes of "rape" are not nearly as historically accurate as you may think. It drives me up the wall when people defend these scenes as something common to the time, as something everyone did; this immediately makes it clear to me that they have not actually read a history book or anything about women's history. It is a lot more complicated than that and assuming that men raped women left, right and centre is just wrong and a poor defence of shitty male writers trying to defend stories of violence against women.

With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter One**

The kingdom of England was full of pathetic, docile lambs awaiting the slaughter. They clung to their god like a child clung to their wet-nurse, hiding behind their prayers as though that were enough to save them from Odin's wrath. It was disgusting.

And yet, in that moment anyway, Halfdan found he did not mind. He was crouched behind a large tree, watching the comings and goings of a fairly wealthy estate. Easy prey meant easy access to supplies and easy access to supplies was exactly what he needed right now. Avenging the death of Ragnar Lothbrok would not be possible on an empty stomach.

One glance had been enough to tell him that this estate could be taken with no trouble at all on their part but Harald, always the ambitious one, had another idea. Striking after the sun had set - after the servants returned from the market saddled with fresh goods – was the best way forward. Halfdan did not disagree but it was hard not to glare at his brother when they had been crouched in a thick net of bushes for the last two hours. To put it simply, Halfdan was bored.

The estate was like every other in this strange land. Made of creaking wooden beams (easy to burn) and full of plump (easy to spill their guts), weepy-eyed people, scurrying backwards and forwards in a monotony of greys and browns. Sometimes they called to each other, sometimes the young ones would be scolded with a quick whack to the shins but none were warriors. None stood straight and tall, head held high with the blessing of the gods. Halfdan was half surprised they did not keel over and die from the boredom of it all.

At noon, things finally got a little more interesting. A wobbling wagon hurtled into the drive at full speed, its driver scrambling to his feet in his rush to open the door for his master. He had just barely managed to wrench it open, the hinges squeaking in protest, when a Holy Man burst out. Clad in what looked like a dull white sack, he shoved past his sputtering servant, striding into the house and calling out in a high and reedy voice. Halfdan did not understand the language but it was obvious the Holy Man was upset. He felt his lip curl in distaste.

Moments later, a woman stormed from the manor. She was different from the rest – well cared for and well groomed. Clearly a lady of some sort of standing. Her hair cascaded down her back in thick chestnut curls. Her skin shone with her youth, bronzed from the soft summer sun. Her eyes were the colour of a rich glade at the height of spring, her gown a deep green to match, made of the best cloth. And yet, her face, one that could only have been carved by the gods, cheekbones sharp as an axe and lips an enticing, blood red, was twisted into a scowl.

She stomped to the edge of what, Halfdan guessed, passed for a garden, mere paces from his party of ruthless heathens. He bared his teeth, anticipation for what he would do to her later making his blood run hot. He loved beating their faith from the Christians. He wondered if she would plead with him or her god before he ran his blade over her delicate, smooth throat. Maybe she would start chanting in that strange, tilting language the way the Holy Men did? It did not matter; as long he watched the light fade from her feeble, defenceless eyes.

The woman was breathing heavily, glaring at a rose bush before she turned around and punched a tree. Maybe she was not so feeble after all. Her knuckles crunched from the impact, scraped raw and bloody but it only seemed to fuel her rage. She turned her ire to her hand, glowering at it like it had committed a grievous sin. It was rather amusing.

The Holy Man's wheezing words drifted towards them from the house on a summer breeze and the woman's head whipped toward the sound. She muttered something and clenched her fists, her jaw squared and tilted back with a defiance Halfdan had yet to see in her people. He should not have been surprised – of all the lands he had ravaged, the women most often proved to be the most fierce, fought the hardest.

By now a fairly large party of people streamed from the house, their clothing of the same quality as the woman's. They snapped and whined, all clamouring to be heard over each other and not quite managing to drown out the Holy Man. He led the charge, marching on the woman who met them head on. Halfdan did not understand their words but got the general gist of things. They were unhappy with the woman, who met all their complaints with quick, sword sharp retorts that steadily made the Holy Man's face turn a shade of red found only on Halfdan's favourite berries.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Elfreda," the Holy Man said, "your behaviour is not befitting for a woman of your standing. How do you expect to be a good Christian wife if you persist on running wild outdoors every day?"

She raised a dark brow. "I did not realise the two were mutually exclusive."

" _Freda_ ," warned a man with the same eyes and same brown curls.

"Well," she said with false cheer, "I can put your minds to rest. I have no intention of becoming a good Christian wife - all your worries are for nought."

The Holy Man sputtered for a few long moments, mute in his rage. The man who could only be her father stepped forward again.

" _Elfreda_ ," he hissed, his face a splotchy mess of reds, "do not embarrass us. Your talk of the pagans, of their gods and of," his voice became weak and he made a gesture Halfdan recognised as one used for prayer, "their _men_ has lost you more marriage proposals than you can afford. They think you a heathen; they think you lost to God. For the sake if your soul, please, listen to Father Burne."

The woman rolled her eyes, sighing as though she were most put upon, like the Holy Man's presence was a mild bother to her at most. Halfdan could see the way her nails cut into her palm though, could see the tension in her back. She was more agitated than she let on. Even though he could not understand the conversation, he could read body language well enough.

"Honestly, you are all so dramatic. A heathen? Because I wish to marry a man of my own choosing? Because I refuse to be an obedient dog for one? Because I want a man who does not breathe like a pig and try to slip a gnarled, aging hand up my dress when they think I am not looking? Please," she scoffed, "do not be ridiculous."

Her father appeared lost to despair. He fell to his knees, uncaring that his garments, carefully pressed, would be stained an irreversible green. "Elfreda,' he almost sobbed, "you do not have a choice. You are well past the age of marriage - at twenty years, for pity's sake – you are an old maid. If you do not marry now, no one will have you."

" _Oh_ , what a shame." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

A woman, possibly her mother, let out a screeching wail, pressing a handkerchief of careful embroidery to her mouth. She turned and fled to the house, her cries lost to its shadowed depths.

"I think," the Holy Man forced out, "that we should continue this later, when everyone is in a more reasonable state of mind. Let us pray and think on this poor girl's future."

The woman waited until the crowd of people had turned their backs before she pulled a series of faces, silently imitating the Holy Man and mocking his gestures. A little boy, who had turned back to stare, giggled. She winked at him.

The Holy Man slowed before he reached the house, saying something to his companions then turning back around. The woman quickly straightened, pretending to stare serenely at the forest, her gaze, if it had slid just a tree to the left, so deliciously close to detecting Halfdan.

The woman shuddered as the Holy Man grew close, her shoulders tightening in what only could be described as fear. Halfdan wondered what she had to fear from the frail pile of skin and bones.

"Freda," he said in a murmur, condescending. His breath smothering the syllables of her name. "My dear Elfreda, I can make all this trouble disappear." He slithered closer. The woman gripped something hidden in the folds of her skirt. "Have you not thought on my previous offer?"

"I would rather _die_ ," she spat out with a vengeance, her eyes now the colour of the oldest tree in the deepest part of the forest, where only the gods and the beasts go.

"Now, now, do not be so hasty. Would it be so bad? You would be a woman of God, revered and sacred to all, tucked away from the world… with me." He reached out a crumbling hand, pawing roughly at her face. "I could teach you the," he paused, " _ways_ of heaven." His hand slid lower, down her chest.

The woman snarled, pulling out a knife and slashing his wrist with it. It cut deep, almost instantly spraying the two of them in a river of blood. His hand was dangling from his wrist as he howled and writhed, his blood pooling at their feet. She stared in horror, watching his hand swing as he moved, held on by a single bloody tendon.

"You will pay for this, witch," the Holy Man spat as he stumbled back the way he came.

The woman's sickened expression shifted to one of panic in the blink of an eye. Faster than a deer, she darted to the treeline, scrambling over logs and ripping up flowers in a frenzy. She grabbed a rock, its surface jagged and grey.

The Holy Man was trying to run now, his pleas for help mere whimpers as he staggered towards the house. The woman dove after him, bringing the rock down over his head, which caved in on itself with slick crunch.

The woman gagged, throwing herself away from the body, which was the same shade as the rock that killed him. Shaking, and casting one last longing look at her home, she sprinted into the forest, bypassing the Northmen completely in her blind sprint for her life.

Halfdan turned to his brother. "Continue the raid without me. I want the woman."

Harald raised a brow but did not object, nodding his permission. Halfdan smiled.

* * *

Ta daaaa!

I know this seems really dramatic and extreme and goes from zero to one hundred with no explanation but I promise all will be revealed next chapter!

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys!

Rating: T mild violence and references to past abuse.

Disclaimer: I do not own Vikings or any its characters - this is a work of love and appreciation and nothing more.

 _Aelf_ : Elf. A spirit/supernatural entity originating in Germanic cultures, references to which date back to Anglo-Saxon England. Not an elf in the sense as we later knew them (and no relation to the elves found in Tolkien's work). Apparently, they possibly preceded the English Fairfolk and the Irish _Aos Si_ which is what I am basing the folklore found in this story on. As an English gal with Irish and Scottish heritage, I love me some faery tales. I spent a lot of my childhood with my grandparents in Ireland and I lived for all the stories of the Fairfolk. Its good shit - look it up.

In terms of plot, this loosely follows Season 4B but it will diverge into my own plot fairly soon.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

She did not know how far she ran. She could have run into the netherworld for all she knew, into a different realm for all she recognised the scenery. The sounds of the town had long ago faded behind her and she felt a shiver of fear tingle up her spine. What was she going to do? Father Burne's crushed, gaping skull flashed before her eyes and the fear vanished. The future did not matter. Nothing did. All she could do was run.

Night had begun to fall by the time she slowed to stop by a stream, gasping for breath and desperate for a sip of water. The brook bubbled and gurgled as she crouched over it, gleaming silver in the moonlight. She savoured the sight. Soon, no matter how hard she tried, she knew she would be executed for murder. No one would care that he had deserved it. No one would believe that she had suffered under him for years. She already had a reputation as a heathen – they would probably burn her as a witch.

A small sob escaped her and she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, the pressure almost hurting as she tried to hold back her tears. She took a few deep breaths. The air shuddered from her lungs in harsh gasps as she slowly pulled herself together. It did not matter. Just keep running.

Freda was surprised at how far she could go. It seemed all the days she had spent exploring the woods by her house, hunting for dragons and sprites, had not been wasted. Despite what her father said. How he hated that her face held the sun kissed glow of summer when a good noblewoman should stay indoors and weave, should support her household and have the pale skin to prove it. She huffed; they were not even noble – just wealthy merchants. Why did it matter what she did?

She shook her head – it would not do to dwell on the past. It was too late to change anything now and she needed to focus on her future. If she had one. Exhaustion was beginning to set in, however, and she was jogging instead of running at this point. She could stop and rest now, gather her strength for morning, or she could collapse later.

She found a large oak tree to huddle under, bringing her knees close to her chest and pressing close to the bark. She drew comfort from its wide, strong trunk, from the embrace of its canopy of rustling leaves. Still, it did not keep out the chill. Why had she not worn warmer clothes when she dressed that morning? The blackness of night was all consuming now and she peered about her in fear, the forest completely swallowing any light from the stars. She knew all the tales of girls being whisked away by monsters disguised as angels in the forest at night and she did not want to be one of them.

She drifted into an uneasy sleep, haunted by the touch of Father Burne and by the scent of his blood. She woke with a start. The sun was beginning to kiss the horizon, bathing the forest in a magical golden glow. At first she thought that was what had awakened her.

It started as an itch at the back of her skull, like a thought or a name she could not quite place. The more she sat there, trying to gather the energy for another day of running, trying to think of her next move, the more something bothered her. She was reminded of Sundays at church, when she used to be unable to focus, feeling eyes on her but not knowing who held her in their creeping, silent gaze. She straightened, peering into the bushes with eyes alight with suspicion. Someone was watching her.

Freda scrambled to her feet, grabbing a branch from the forest floor as a make-shift weapon, her knife long forgotten in her struggle with Father Burne – stupid. She forced her shoulders back and held her head high, ignoring the shaking of her hand. "Who is there?"

Silence answered her.

She frowned. Was she wrong? She sighed, about to drop her stick when a branch snapped loudly to her left. She whirled around, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. Was that possible? In that moment she thought it was.

She raised her poor excuse for a weapon, backing against the tree in an attempt to stop someone, or something, from sneaking up behind her.

A figure emerged from the shadows, the last vestiges of night clinging to the dark corners of the forest, resisting the pull of the daylight slowly illuminating the sky in the east. The figure was tall and proud, moving in a way she had never seen before. It prowled forward, stalked her the way she had seen their Lord's dogs hunt foxes. She was sure he, for the figure could only be a man, was an _aelf_. The way he wore the forest like a cloak, navigating it the way an owl navigates the dark, his strong, lithe form so different to the rounded bellies and hanging jowls of all the men she knew. He was surely here to trick her, to put a spell on her and have her slowly waste away from madness.

"Keep away, sprite – I am wearing iron." It was a lie but it was all she had.

The figure stopped, tilting its head to the side, considering. She almost wept with relief – had her lie worked?

Then the light hit the figures face and she felt her world crumble away.

He was a Northman, a pagan, and he was here to ravage her and slit her throat – and that was if she was lucky. Her lie would not work on him. Freda wished now that he was an _aelf_ – at least then she would have some small taste of their immortal realm before she died.

His hair, fair and wild, hung half over his face, the other side shaved. It would have been odd but all her attention was drawn to the strange markings on his face and the sword at his side. It looked sharper than the one her Lord made his servants drag around as he bragged about battles everyone knew he had never seen. Much sharper. She hoped that would make it quick.

He stopped a few feet from her, head still tilted to the side as he dragged his gaze all over her form. She snarled, pointing her stick at him in threat. He laughed.

Her throat closed as she tried not cry. So this was it. The tale of Elfreda Witcomb: killer of priests and ravaged by Northmen. She would never see the sea, never dance in the rain again or pluck the juicy, bursting blackberries from the brambles by the well in the late summer heat. She would never see her mother again or hear her sister butcher her silly songs in her screeching voice from the parlour. She would never again feel the wind through her hair or the grass under her feet. She would never know a lover's embrace or the cry of her own babe. At least she had mocked Old Man Malthus before she died, the haggard old bastard.

She knew one thing: she would not die without a fight. Let it be said that she died as she had lived: angry and full of spite.

The Northman noticed the change in her and grinned. It was not a pleasant smile. He said something to her – not that she knew what it meant and took a slow deliberate step forward, cataloguing her reaction. She snarled again, taking her own deliberate step forward in a foolhardy attempt to intimidate him. That only made his grin wider.

A branch cracked overhead and against her will her eyes darted to the noise. It was a bird taking flight, a magpie soaring away with a small silver trinket clenched in its beak. It had been less than a second but it was all the distraction the Northman needed. Before she could raise her stick, before she could so much as a draw a breath, he was upon her.

He knocked her stick to the ground as easily as the wind scattered a dandelion into the sky. She gasped, raising her other arm to land a blow to his face but he grabbed her fist without even looking and pinned it to her side. Grabbing her other arm, he forced her to turn around; his chest now pressed flush against her back. She thrashed, throwing her head back recklessly but he dodged that with ease also. He pressed his face close to her ear and the heat of him burned her skin, his lips brushing her hair. His whispered something to her, his tone mocking but she did not know what he said.

She lifted her foot and kicked backwards, without a target and without purpose, only looking to hurt, to escape. He tried to drag her away but she was struggling too hard, alternating between flailing wildly and dropping boneless to the ground, abruptly becoming dead weight.

The harder she fought, the more he smiled until she managed to land an errant, lucky kick to his groin. That wiped the smug grin off his face and she took the moment to give him one of her own. It cost her.

She felt a sudden pressure on the back of her skull and frowned. Then her head came alive in sudden agony. The last thing she saw was the Northman's dark eyes looming over her and then the world slid into darkness.

* * *

Freda could have slept on forever, living in an endless dream of nothing, a welcome relief from the nightmare of the last few hours but there was an insistent, throbbing pain in her arms that would not cease.

Her eyes fluttered, not quite open, and she slowly became aware of being pressed against another person, their body soft and warm but reeking of sweat and urine.

Her arms, which ached in a way that made her feel she had aged decades instead of mere hours, were tied tightly behind her back. She shot up, head whipping side to side as her mind refused to accept what her eyes were telling her.

The Northmen encampment was huge, at least twice the size of her own town. It was clearly divided into different sections but what those divisions were based on was unclear to Freda. The tents were made from heavy, richly coloured fabrics that she did not recognise; a sea of reds, yellows, blues and greens. Whether those colours denoted allegiance or wealth, Freda was unsure, but she knew her father would kill to get his hands on cloth of such a unique make. The Northmen were not so different from their tents – all adorned with intricate plaits and braids, their clothing sturdy but bright, their strange markings making their faces terrifying and otherworldly. She understood why everyone called them demons now.

The constant clang of metal hitting metal beat in time to her heart, deafening her with its resounding _thump thump thump_. She had never seen so many weapons in her life before – why would she? She was only a merchant's daughter. The sound of warfare and soldiers was as unfamiliar to her as the Northmens' language. The scraping of blades, the thunk of arrows: it all scared her in a manner that she had never felt before, down to her very bones.

Freda was in a large group at the edge of the camp, all instantly recognisable as her own people. They were tied together in a series of complicated knots and ropes that only tightened the harder she struggled. She could not see the person she was tied to but the lingering smell of lavender in their hair made her think it was a woman.

"Whe-" she tried to speak, only to cough and choke – her throat dry and painful. "Where are we?"

The girl she was tied to was trembling and had been since Freda had become aware of her. She let out a small cry and took a few moments to collect herself. "I do not know where we are. The Northman that took me had me blindfolded before we got close."

Freda started, twisting around to try and catch a glimpse of her companion. " _Edith?_ "

The woman stopped trembling. " _Elfreda_?"

Freda's limbs began to feel heavy with dread. She could see exactly where this conversation was going to end and it was the last thing they needed.

Edith started to laugh hysterically, throwing her head back at angle that must have made her dizzy. "This is just rich," she said, loud enough to catch the attention of their guards and some of the Northmen dining to their left. "I bet you are having the time of your life right now. Is it everything you hoped for? Everything you dreamed of? Found your future husband yet?"

"Shut up," Freda hissed, eyeing their guards with fear.

"Why? Afraid I will embarrass you in front of your new friends?" Edith laughed again, a pitiful, crazed sound that she had to drag from the back of her throat and ended in coughs and hacks, her voice hoarse.

"Shut up!" A guard yelled in clear English, startling the two girls enough to silence them.

The crowd of prisoners shifted, aware that their captors could understand them and the care they would now have to take with their words.

The commotion had garnered even more attention from the dining Northmen and Freda felt eyes on her. She glanced up and blanched in horror. The sprite, the demon Northman who had captured her, was watching with a single minded focus as he ate with what she assumed were his friends. He held his tankard high in the air, giving her a mocking toast and she narrowed her eyes at him. That only made his smile more feral.

He slowly made his way over to the guards, careful to keep his eyes on her the whole time. She watched him the way a rabbit watches a fox. He said something to the guard that could speak English, who straightened at his presence. Clearly her kidnapper held some kind of rank.

They exchanged a short conversation, occasionally glancing at the two girls tied together. Edith started to cry. Freda did not - she suspected she was too scared to know how to react.

"What was the blonde one referring to?" The guard finally asked, his English oddly formal. There was a story there; one Freda suspected did not have a pleasant outcome.

Edith, sensing what could be an opportunity to better her situation, stopped crying enough to speak. "Elfreda is touched by madness. She has always talked of pagan Gods and pagan men without fear and has, on more than one occasion, expressed a desire to run off with one. Our village hated her. If she did not marry a good Christian by the end of the season, she was to be put on trial as a witch."

Freda stiffened and twisted in her bonds in an attempt to look at Edith, trying to detect any falsehoods in her words.

Edith gave a watery laugh, somehow sensing her reaction. "You did not know?" She sighed. "Of course you did not. You are lucky you have made it this far. It is only by the grace of Father Burne that you are even alive today – he advocated most fiercely on your behalf, insisting you join the convent next to his church. He tried so hard to save your soul – not that you deserve it, witch."

This time Freda gave no reaction as the guard relayed Edith's words to the sprite. She felt empty, blank, like a blanket of snow had descended over her mind, wiping any thoughts and feelings from her. She did not even look at the Northman as he called out to her, saying something no doubt intended to torment her.

She took a leaf from Edith's book and started to laugh. She laughed until she could not breathe and then laughed some more.

It had not mattered – none of it had mattered. Executed for witchcraft because she would not marry or executed for the murder of Father Burne – either way she was always meant to end up dead. And, maybe worst of all, she was trapped here with the Northmen, destined for a fate far more terrible than death.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys!

Rating: M for violence, slight gore and a suicide attempt.

Disclaimer: I do not own Vikings or any its characters - this is a work of love and appreciation and nothing more.

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

The weeks passed her by in a blur of pain and fear. Freda did not understand why she was there or what the Northmen wanted from her and that uncertainty was almost worse than the agony of being held prisoner. Almost.

They were given one meal a day, whatever leftovers the guards could scrounge up from the Northmens' own suppers - she was always too hungry to turn her nose up at it. The bonds that tied Freda to the other prisoners were never loosened for meals or for sleep – they were only untied when they were dragged to the edge of the camp in order to relieve themselves.

Every bone in her body ached, every muscle, every hair. It seemed as though her very soul ached. It was uncomfortably hot as the summer sun beat down on them during the day but then uncomfortably cold at night in its absence. The smell of them had worsened hour by hour until the Northmen had decided it was too much for even them to bear and forced them all to strip naked and bathe in a nearby river. The relief at being clean again outweighed any modesty Freda might have otherwise had but the act of baring her body proved to be too much for Edith, who refused to undo so much as a button. Freda tried to feel resentful for it, after all, she was the one tied to the stinking woman, but, truthfully, Edith was the only comfort Freda had in this Hell.

The two girls had known each other since even before they knew their own names. Growing up side by side on neighbouring estates, sharing the same governess who taught them how to sew, how to stand, how to talk and how to eat, they were cousins by birth but enemies by choice. In all honesty, Freda could not remember why it happened – she suspected it had something to do with throwing a mushy potato at Edith's new dress when they were seven years of age but at this point it was anyone's guess. It did not matter – what _had_ mattered was that Freda had refused every offer of marriage she had received at the age of fifteen while Edith had been desperate for even one. In reality, Freda's parents could have forced her to into an arrangement at any time but that would have meant contending with a teenage girl at her angriest and most spiteful – a task they felt woefully unprepared for. Edith's parents, on the other hand, bullied her into accepting the first offer she had received – from a withered, crusting brute of a man that treated her like a prized mare rather than his wife.

"If you continue to insist on smelling like a pig, can you at least do it as far away from me as possible?" Freda asked, pretending to gag as Edith tried to shift into a more comfortable position behind her.

"If you continue to insist on being a pagan, can you at least do it as far away as possible from _me_?" Edith retorted without missing a beat.

Freda had not seen her kidnapper again. After the sprite had taunted her that first day, he seemed to have lost interest in her entirely – not that she was complaining. The Northmen appeared to be far too busy preparing for some sort of battle to take any real interest in their prisoners. The guards were downright annoyed that they had to watch over the English when they could have been training like the others.

Against her will, Freda grew more and more fascinated with the heathens by the day. She feared them, she hated them and yet she could not help but admire them as well. There was one woman in particular, a blonde warrior, who had caught Freda's eye. Mixed feelings of jealousy and disgust bubbled to the surface whenever Freda saw her. What might her life have been like if she were raised as one of these Northmen? Would she be a leader, a fighter, like the blonde woman? The thought of going into battle terrified her but, even worse, the appeal it held scared her even more. Had everyone been right? Was she a sinner, a heathen?

Edith sighed, "for Heaven's sake, I can feel you overthinking something without having to look at you."

Freda rolled her eyes.

"Do not roll your eyes at me! Do not think I do not know when you mock me."

Something in Freda warmed at Edith's words. Edith's need to scold Freda, to gripe and moan at her was the only familiar thing left in this new world they found themselves in. It was something of a home comfort, to hear Edith bemoan her behaviour, her inappropriate words, and Freda suspected the same thing held true for the other woman.

"I am well aware of how much you see and hear, Edith, why do you think I do it so much? Those bat ears of yours could detect a sly remark a hundred leagues away." Freda waited until she felt Edith go stiff with suppressed rage behind her before she continued. "Tell me, do the good noblemen of the court find it appealing when you go that lovely shade of beetroot over the smallest of inconveniences?"

Edith hissed and Freda could imagine the bright splotches of anger that were surely now rising high on her face.

"Tell me, dear cousin, do the good noblemen of the court find your eternal damnation appealing?"

Freda tutted in disappointment. "That was weak, Edith. You seem to have lost your touch. You cannot keep harking back to the heathen thing – you need new material."

Edith scoffed. "You would like that, would you not? You would love to forget how damned you are, how truly depraved you are. You are a sinner and a pagan and you _will_ suffer for it."

Freda thought of Father Burne and felt bile rise in the back of her throat. "Stop it," she whispered.

Edith, sensing that she had struck on something that cut deep, laughed. "Why? Does it bother you? Does the truth scare you?"

"I told you to stop."

Edith paused and Freda felt her tilt her head to the side. "This has never upset you before? What has changed?

"Before I did not mean it, before I only said all those things about the pagans and the Northmen to rile everyone up." She let out a shuddering breath. "But I did something bad, Edith," she said in a small voice, "and the worse part is that I do not regret it."

Edith was silent for a long time before she answered. "What did you do?"

"You would you hate me if I told you."

Edith snorted. "I already hate you."

"And I you," Freda replied. She found herself smiling.

* * *

When Freda woke up that morning, she could already tell something was different. The Northmen were excited as they ate, louder than normal. Something was in the air, raising their spirits and putting something wild in their eyes. It made the prisoners tense.

"What do you suppose is happening?" Edith whispered, trembling in the pale morning light.

"I do not know," Freda replied, "but I suspect we will find out soon."

She was not wrong. Their young guards appeared especially affected by the atmosphere and it did not take them long to get swept up in the wave of excitement. The one who spoke English, a tall, broad shouldered man with a patchy, pathetic excuse for a beard waved his sword through the air. "Hey, Christians," he called, leering at them, "I have some good news for you!"

The other guards laughed, jeering and howling, patting him on the shoulder.

"Today, we will make the Gods proud!" He shouted. "Today we ride to Wessex to slaughter your King and your people!" He beat his shield with his sword. "Today we will avenge Ragnar Lothbrok!"

A cheer rose up throughout the camp, every Northman hitting a shield or a table or a post to make one giant drumbeat that Freda felt in her chest. The prisoners shook and cried as the pagans yelled, watching as the heathens packed their bags and painted their faces in odd, swirling designs, helpless to stop them and powerless to warn their people. Freda could only stare in mute horror at the heathens' sheer joy for battle, at their snapping and yowling for blood.

"Do you think they will win?" A young boy asked, his voice wavering. "Do you think they will really kill the king?"

"Yes," Freda whispered, "I do believe they will." Her own voice was devoid of emotion.

The prisoners fell into a dark silence after that.

The camp was a quiet, eerie place after all the warriors rode away, bathed in sunlight and their own unwavering belief in victory. They left behind those who could not fight: the injured, the children and some of their wives. The children liked to laugh at the prisoners and throw rocks and mud until their mothers would drag them away, casting cold looks over their shoulders. If the prisoners thought that the female pagans would be any softer than the men, they were sorely mistaken.

Life did not change much for the English. They still ate only one meal a day, they were still tied together and their future was still very much a dark mystery, looming over them and seeping into everything they did, every thought they had. Edith had taken to praying almost every hour, her words feverish and desperate but, if God heard her, he made no sign of it.

* * *

They could hear the return of the Northmen before they saw them. The thumping of thousands of marching feet, the roars of the glorious and the clanging of metal made a symphony of war and blood. Without needing to be told, the English knew their kinsmen had lost. One of the old women started to wail.

That night, the pagans feasted and celebrated until well after dawn – their music strange and hypnotising, their dancing seductive and oddly captivating. Freda found herself straining against her bonds, unsure if she wanted to watch them closer or join them.

No one was watching the prisoners – their guards too preoccupied with merry making and drink. As one, the prisoners moved closer to the festivities, to the centre of the camp, coordinating their movements in a series of whispers while several of the younger ones with better eyesight acted as lookouts. They managed to get close enough to the Northmens' dining tent, stocked with sharp eating utensils that the prisoners slipped under their garments, before they slithered back to their spot by the edge of the forest. They were all panting, the whites of their eyes visible in their terror and yet their hearts beat as one, in triumph and exhilaration. They grinned under the moonlight.

Attempting to escape then was foolhardy – it was too close to dawn and, judging by how much noise the Northmen were free to make, they were too far from any towns that could offer them safety. No, they would have to wait for the Northmen to move further down the coast before they had any real chance of making it out alive.

The cold press of the knife's blade under her dress was like the kiss of a lover to Freda, who held the weapon closer to her heart than was wise. It offered hope, a chance to fight and, most importantly, a way out if they failed to get free. Freda did not want to die but she would have no conniptions about slitting her own throat if it meant saving herself from the torture of the pagans. She would do it for no other reason than to spite them.

Content with her plan, Freda spent the next few days allowing herself to imagine what freedom might feel like again – what it might be like to sleep in a bed, the feeling of a ripe berry bursting in her mouth, its juices spilling down her chin in decadent rivulets, the smell of rain or her mother's perfume. Once she started, it became impossible to stop. She spent her waking hours obsessing over what she would do once she escaped, what food she would eat, what songs she would sing – her mind became both a refuge and a prison, tormenting her while it comforted.

Life, however, had other plans - as it so often does. Fate is fickle and unkind, unworking the seams of the best-laid traps and unravelling dreams with only a small, swift swipe of the scissors. Freda was no exception to this.

Their guard was drunk again. His brief stint in battle had given him a taste of the good life – one he was loath to let go of. Drinking, he had told them, was the only way he could dull his killing instincts. "Otherwise, I would end your lives with one sharp swing of my axe without being able to stop myself! It is only natural – I killed so many Christians in battle that my hands would do it of their own accord."

Every night he regaled them with increasingly dramatic variations of the same story. With no where to run, no way to fight back and fear keeping their mouths shut, his prisoners had no choice but to be his unwilling, unhappy audience.

"And - and then twenty Christians charged me at the same time! All with swords sharp as Fenrir's teeth!" He paused and attempted to take a large gulp from his tankard but only succeeded in spilling half down his tunic. "I dodged and I cut and I stabbed and I span – I was Odin himself! I killed every last one of them as quick as you can blink an eye!" He burped and blinked a few times, trying to focus his gaze.

And Freda, who had heard this tale a thousand times over, who had grown comfortable on her patch of grass, who had grown arrogant with her knife tucked under her skirts, could not keep her mouth shut any longer. " _Wow_ ," she drawled, rolling her eyes with mocking exaggeration, "I wonder how they survived without you before."

The prisoners froze. It seemed time itself had stopped. Under the gentle light of the stars Freda held her breath and found herself praying with a religious fervour she had never shown in church. Maybe the guard was too drunk to have understood her. Maybe he had fallen asleep. Maybe he had not heard her. As his face slowly turned a deep shade of purple, however, she knew that God had let her down once again.

The guard staggered to his feet, drink making his steps blundering and unsteady. He forced his way through the crowd, who parted for him as easily as a knife cuts through butter. Freda trembled but kept her head held high – she would not cower. She was ready – for death or for escape, it did not matter which. She found herself almost relieved, that her torment was over, that she no longer had to worry.

"I am sorry," she whispered to Edith, who let out a choked sob.

With brutal efficiency, the guard cut away her bonds, uncaring that he nicked both Freda and Edith in the process. Edith yelped but Freda could only stare in morbid fascination as the small stream of red ran down her wrist, turning black against the green of her dress.

She hissed as the Northman grabbed a fistful of her hair, using it to drag her back towards the camp. He was yelling and grunting in that strange language of his, attracting the attention of all the neighbouring tents. The other Northmen started to laugh and jeer as they followed them, apparently delighted by her torment. Anger erupted in her chest, roaring and snarling, begging to be released.

She gritted her teeth against the pain, the knife hidden in her breast the only thing she could think about. The guard threw her to the ground with a strength a drunk man should not possess. The breath was forced from her lungs at the impact and she lay there gasping like a fish on land. He sneered at her and landed a well-placed kick to her ribs and her eyes bulged as her body fought harder for air, her rib cage now alight in flame. He stood over her, swaying on his feet with his eyes half lidded and unfocused.

Gradually, the pain subsided enough for her to breathe and she took the moment to slip the knife into her hand, using the cover of night to hide her movements. To the Northmen, it would look like she was just tending to her injured chest. Her grip around its handle was tight enough that blood started to drip from her hand, pressed against a small splinter. She did not notice.

The sky was unusually bright. The stars shone like small beacons of hope, whispering to her, beckoning her, asking her to stay and appreciate their beauty just a little longer. The smell of lavender, soft and delicate, floated to her on the summer breeze, caressing her and settling around her shoulders like a veil. Tears welled in her eyes: it was a perfect summer's night to die.

The guard had managed to pull himself out of his drunken stupor enough to start focusing on her again; he raised his boot, ready to land another blow when a voice called out.

It was low and deadly and Freda recognised it instantly. It was the sprite – her demon – the one that had dragged her into this mess. He had not changed since she had last seen him, although she did not know why she had expected him to. His face was still just as harsh and beautiful, cold and cruel, his markings serving to illuminate him in the dark and set him apart from ordinary men. She hated him.

He approached her attacker and they conversed quickly in Norse. She did not know their language but she did not need to in order to understand what was happening. The Northman was asking the guard why he was attacking his prize, his bounty - his spoils of war. She felt her lips curl in distaste at the thought.

The guard mumbled and slurred his way through an explanation and the crowd started to laugh at him – no doubt finding humour in the fact that a feeble Christian woman had managed to poke fun at him. His face went that same shade of purple again as he swayed around to meet them, pointing his sword at them and waving it uselessly in the air. It only made them laugh harder.

Her kidnapper turned back to her, his dark eyes raking over her form, alight with amusement at her situation. She bared her teeth at him and scowled, struggling to pick herself back up off the floor. Her muscles were sore and weak from lack of use, her body dangerously malnourished and weakened. She was a shell of her former self – her once luminous skin dull and lifeless, her cheeks hollow and haggard. She looked like she was already dead.

The guard watched her with drunken rage, scoffing and rolling his eyes. "You think you are saved?" He asked in barely comprehensible English, his accent thick with the drink. "You think you are safe now?" He laughed and it boomed eerily in the night around her. He threw his head back and stumbled, caught off balance. "No – you will never be safe. That is Halfdan the Black," he caught himself, waddling slightly to keep in place and pointed at her kidnapper, "do you know what he does to little Christian women like you?" He sneered, his eyes dragging over her body in the same way her kidnapper's had. Her skin crawled. "Between me and you, most of us cannot stomach it. We – we – we are Vikings! _Vikings_ ," he said to her meaningfully, like she had any idea what he was talking about. "And even to us he is famous for his cruelty." He started to giggle, high-pitched and mean. "And you are going to be his little pet – his slave!" He dissolved into fits of laughter then, sliding to the floor in a drunken haze of bewilderment and humour.

Freda was frozen in horror, for the first time feeling reality settle over her mind like a shroud. Slave. Pet. Halfdan the Black. Cruel.

She turned wide, wet eyes on him, Halfdan the Northman, sprite and kidnapper, and he stared back. His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes. _Oh_ , his eyes. She knew they would haunt her forever, would follow her into whatever afterlife she ended up in just to torment her some more, to never let her forget him. She shuddered. He caught the movement and smiled, the moonlight glinting off his teeth.

She did not think about it when she raised the knife over her heart, she did not even blink. She just stood there and returned the Northman's smile but her own eyes screamed with spite as she drove the blade's point into her chest.

 _Oh_ , she thought, distantly surprised as the life drained from her body, _maybe this was a mistake_.

* * *

Thank you for reading!


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